


Muse

by Galahard



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Art AU, I took a few liberties with the prompt, M/M, and art thief, as in art school
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:17:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5955045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galahard/pseuds/Galahard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Eggsy is an art student by day and art thief by night who steals from the rich to rub it in that all the fancy security systems can't stop a thief like him. One day while he's running away from the security he stumbles upon a hot old gentleman. Eggsy kisses the gentleman as a way of hiding from the guards (as in captain America: Winter soldier style where Natasha kisses Steve to blend in) When the guards are gone Eggsy just winks at the stunned man and thanks him for the kiss before escaping.</p><p>The next day Eggsy goes to school in a good mood from the kiss last night ready for a boring lesson by an elderly professor. He's not expecting to find out that his old professor resigned/died recently so the new teacher is none other than the gentleman from the night before, Harry Hart. Harry is a former successful artist turned teacher when he found he lacked inspiration for doing art. He had been viewing galleries in hopes of inspiration, but didn't expect to be kissed by a handsome young man. Especially when said young man turned out to be his student.</p><p>So from here we have awkwardness as both try to figure out how to broach the subject and slow burn as they realize they liked the kiss and are in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RaychDZeros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaychDZeros/gifts).



> I'm horrid at summaries so I just used the prompt, though I will say I strayed from it a smidge here and there. I hope you enjoy!

He hadn’t stuck with gymnastics for long. Having Dean for a step-father saw to that, but he had the basics down, and he’d turned those foundations into skills he could use on the streets. He was fucking ace at parkour, but it didn’t end there.

No, the flexibility and agility let him slip in and out of houses, finding the holes in their security and letting him exploit them. The fact that he was into art was a no-brainer really. Who would think someone from his neighborhood would bother with art? No, all of the people he grew up with were into petty shit and selling drugs. Art made sense. Plus he got to steal from the toffs instead of people just as trampled down as he was.

Course he was good with it too, that didn’t hurt nothing. He went to school for it and everything at the local university, though it was just level 5 coursework. After this term he just had one more, then he’d have his Art and Design Foundation Degree, then maybe he’d be able to get an actual job. For now, paying for the degree with stolen art had a certain sense of irony to it, and he’d do whatever he had to.

He cased the room he was currently in, looking for a light painting. Nothing big, something he could carry easily in the frame rather than cutting it out and damaging the work. He wasn’t here to destroy nothing.

It didn’t take long to find something of actual quality to meet his criteria, there were a lot of works in the house, the owner being quite the connoisseur. He was twisting his way out of a window when a voice came from the darkness. “The police were called a minute ago, you might as well give up now and make it easier on yourself.”

The one thing he couldn’t let himself do was freeze, even if his movements did stutter for a second before he made it outside, sprinting for the gate even as dogs rounded the house, barking ferociously. Somehow he beat them, panting on the other side of the fence, but there was no time to wait. He could hear sirens getting closer, and he sprinted down the sidewalk, needing distance before he would be able to do something more clever.

It wasn’t until he’d cleared the first intersection that he ditched the dark wig he’d had on, a precaution he normally took. Not a full disguise, but something to throw them off the trail. Cursing, his jacket went too, one he liked well enough that he hated the loss. The painting he shoved into a plastic bag of all things, a sturdier one from a book store, but nothing fancy. Deception, that was the name of the game.

Still, sirens were screaming toward him, and ahead he could see a couple of coppers on foot rounding a corner, obviously heading from the opposite direction to offer assistance. He turned at the next street, trying not to seem too out of place, and there he saw him. The older man was out with a dog, taking a late stroll it seemed, and he was perfect. It would just seem like he’d been in a hurry to get to his lover, and the old man would have a nice story to think about when he took a shower.

Without waiting he swooped in, catching the man off guard as he stretched up, a hand on his collar, kissing him as the older man’s lips parted in surprise, allowing him to deepen the kiss, which could only add credibility he was sure as he saw the bobbies pass out of the corner of his eye.

He knew he was a good kisser so when he pulled back he gave the man a wink in thanks.

The older man opened his mouth and Eggsy expected to hear him ask for his number, or perhaps give a heartfelt thank you.

Instead all he got was a shout for his trouble. “Constable! Thief! He’s back here gentlemen!”

“Shit fuck!”

The sting of betrayal piercing his heart he took off at a run, glancing back to see the pair of constables round the corner and sprint after him. 

***

The next morning getting to class was a bitch. His thighs screamed in protest as the mere act of walking stretched cramped muscles, but moving was the best thing he could do for them. He’d taken a couple ibuprofen on his way out but nothing could quite hide the soreness. He was fucking ace at parkour, and he was fast, but he’d been on the run for a long time last night to avoid the two coppers while having almost no lead. He’d have skipped class altogether but it was probably better to be seen than to give anyone reason to wonder about him. Plus his professor was a man prone to rambling and rants, so it wasn’t like it’d be a difficult class.

He was collapsed at his desk, relieved to be sitting and sending Roxy pathetic looking snapchats, when the buzz of the room died out, normally signalling the prof had arrived. 

“Good morning,” an oddly familiar voice said from the front of the room as Eggsy swiped through different effects for his next picture. “Professor Valentine has been admitted to the hospital due to chest pain, so I’m here in his stead. My name is Professor Hart and I teach at Oxford normally. I had taken a sabbatical this term to focus on my art but for the time being I will be covering his classes. Any concerns can be brought up with Dean Merlin. Now then, phones away, I prefer to have my student’s complete attention before I begin.”

Someone kicked the back of his chair so he stashed his phone and looked up, then his eyes widened. The man looking back at him from the front of the room showed barely a hint of recognition, but a chill ran down Eggsy’s spine as the man suddenly smiled.

“Now then, to get the creative juices flowing this morning and so that no one falls asleep I think it might be good for everyone to get up and stretch a little. Alright everyone, up on your feet.”

He was fucked.

***

As screwed as he thought he’d be, he actually liked the class. The police hadn’t shown up to drag him, out, and Professor Hart was a good teacher. He lectured, but he didn’t take up the whole class, stopping with time to actually practice what they’d learned instead of leaving it all for homework, giving everyone individual feedback on their ad designs. It was obvious that he was an expert, especially since this particular course was fairly diverse in terms of the mediums chosen. They didn’t talk about the kiss, and they didn’t talk about the police, and Eggsy was fine with that.

Almost.

In fact he wouldn’t have minded talking about the kiss a bit more. After that first class (and hobbling out of it), he’d grown to respect the man. And kissing him hadn’t been a chore after all. It was actually pretty fucking hard to sit there in class and watch his lips move without at least thinking of them against his own.

Then, to make things worse, he had a second course with him in the afternoons. Figure drawing. A class with basically no lecture but lots of time for one on one feedback and discussions, Professor Hart standing just behind him, leaning forward to point out a particularly well placed stroke of his charcoal or covering Eggsy’s hand with his own to adjust his grip.

He was going mad, and the sheer amount of showers he was taking as soon as he got back home was starting to look suspicious.

Class ended, everyone else packing up their drawing pads and making sure nothing was left on their easels, the model pulling her shirt back on, and he was still sitting there, staring at his drawing with a frown. 

“Mr. Unwin, is there something I could help you with?”

It was hard to fight the blush that wanted to creep up the back of his neck and to his ears and cheeks, so he chose to focus instead on the drawing in front of him. “It ain’t nothing wrong necessarily, I just don’t feel like I’m getting any bloody emotion in these.”

“Well, they are figure drawings, with an emphasis on working on anatomy. However, I well know how it can feel when you don’t see yourself as progressing. May I ask if you know the model?”

He looked up at the professor, startled. “No? Am I supposed to?”

“Oh, not at all. Sometimes it helps to know who you’re drawing when you’re trying to convey emotion. I tend to pick up on more subtle expressions on those that I know rather than from complete strangers. May I?”

Professor Hart gestured toward his charcoal and sketchpad. “Huh? Oh. Yeah.” Eggsy handed them over, not entirely sure how to feel about things, and the older man began sketching, charcoal floating over the paper.

“There now, it’s just a quick sketch,” he said almost apologetically as he passed it back.

A quick sketch, but, even though it was a picture of himself, Eggsy couldn’t help but stare at it, captivated as the professor continued to speak. “If I hadn’t known you, if I hadn’t known that you were worried about something, I may not have included that crease in your forehead in my quest for perfection. Perhaps I wouldn’t have caught the curious gleam in your eye. Knowing your subject truly isn’t a bad thing.”

“Can I draw you?”

The question was out of his mouth before he could think about it, and the older man raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I believe there is a class in here in an hour, but I don’t mind.”

That was how he found himself with Professor Hart sitting on a stool just a pace away, gripping his charcoal and wondering what the hell he’d done to himself. It was more awkward not to draw though, so after a moment he lost himself in the work. It was just a sketch, a quick headshot with the strong lines of Hart’s neck fading down, the rest of his form hidden beneath his suit though he itched to try his hands at drawing the rest. It was hard to get his eyes correct as he fussed over them enough that he finally just had to put his pencil down rather than take up any more of the man’s time.

“May I see?”

The question made sense, this was meant to be for practice after all, but after taking another look at it Eggsy wasn’t entirely sure he wanted the older man to see it. There was something different about this one, something captivating, different enough that even he could tell and it was somewhat mortifying to admit.

“Yeah, if you want,” he muttered, shoving the sketchbook over.

There was a long pause as he waited for the professor’s critique. It was enough to drive a man mad, and finally when the older man spoke it was just two words. 

“I see.”

“That’s it? You ain’t got no advice?”

“It doesn’t seem as if you have any difficulties capturing expressions after all. I will simply urge you to speak to your models if this is the path you take.” Then paused, waiting until he was sure Eggsy’s attention was focused on him. “And this is the path you should take. You’re much too skilled at creating art to waste your time and talents trying to take it.”

It was the first time he’d acknowledged their first encounter, but before Eggsy could gather his wits about him the professor was standing up. “Now then, it’s time for the next class. Make sure you clean up your easel before you leave.”

***

Monday sucked. Tuesday sucked. Wednesday sucked. In fact, the entire week was going horribly, and it was all Professor Hart’s fault. He had failed to mention that Professor Valentine would be returning, and for the entire week the theme of Eggsy’s art classes seemed to be horrifying hospital stories intermingled with the normal critique of humanity he’d come to expect from the man.

Professor Hart was an arse.

An arse that Eggsy couldn’t seem to stop himself from doodling in the margins of his notes. It was mortifying really, especially when Charlie Hesketh had seen his paper and they’d almost come to blows, but there was nothing he could do. He had no idea where the professor lived other than suspecting it was close to Savile Row, and he was going out of his bloody mind before Roxy, the angel that she was (even if sometimes she acted more like a fallen one), reminded him that Professor Hart had mentioned Dean Merlin in his introduction.

All it took was three hours of refusing to leave the man’s office and a threat that he would sing (accompanied with a vaguely traumatizing example) to get an address where he might find the Professor. 

Kingsman Art Supplies was by far the swankiest shop he’d ever been in. The man behind the counter looked at him with vague curiosity but didn’t have a chance to speak before the man in question himself came out of a side room, possibly a studio by the looks of it. 

“Oi! Professor Hart!”

The older man turned, clearly not expecting him, but recovered quickly enough. “Mr. Unwin, how unexpected to see you here. “Are you here looking for me or were you just picking up some supplies?”

As he spoke he made a show of going over to a shelf to look for a specific brush, asking the clerk to put it on his tab.

“Dean Merlin said you might be here, Professor Hart.”

“Hm. Well, you’d better come on in then. Seeing as I’m no longer your professor you can call me Harry.”

“Eggsy,” he offered, almost distractedly as they walked into the studio, a large easel set up and a palette of paints clearly in use, but it was faced away from the door. 

“Did you have something you needed to talk about?”

Now that he was here it was harder to talk about, so he wasted a minute trying to muster up his courage, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. “Nice studio you got,” Eggsy settled on instead, giving him a moment to get his bearings.

“When I took my sabbatical I rented it out. It has great lighting and I sometimes work better without the distractions of home.” 

It was a short reprieve, and he still didn’t know what he was even there to say, not in so many words. He was saved when he saw a stack of canvases against a wall, the front one a mess of colour, probably trash, but the corner of the one behind it was visible, and just from that much it looked like quality work.

He was drawn to it, oblivious to the slight flash of anxiety on Harry’s face as he moved the first canvas. Behind it was a completed work, a piece filled with a sense of movement, focusing in on a figure in flight.

Not the in-the-air sort, but a young thief on the run, looking back for his pursuers. It was a scene he knew well, though he’d never seen it from that perspective.

“When I see something I tend to remember the details fairly well,” Harry was saying, and that was an understatement. The outfit was exact, or at least he thought it was, he vaguely remembered passing the cat off to his left, and the pose of his run was the slightly unusual one he recognized from videos his friends had taken on their mobiles.

Words were still evading him as he moved over to the canvas that was being worked on, stopping as it finally came into view, rooted in place.

It was him, and somehow he wasn’t surprised. It was from the last time they were together, the painting almost finished. In it the dull rays from the sun that had managed to break through the clouds and pierce the windows of the studio were playing across his hair and shoulder. He was hunched over his sketchbook, one foot on the ground, the other on the lower rung of the stool, biting his lip in concentration as he sketched. Of course then he’d been completely unaware of the scrutiny he’d apparently been under, but the painting itself took his breath away.

He’d never thought of himself as beautiful, but through the eyes of the painter he was mesmerized, even with the knowledge that the subject was meant to be him. And that was the key, this was how the painter had seen him, and that was enough to give him a bit of confidence as he looked back at Harry.

The right words were still out of reach, but fuck, they were artists. Who needed words? Instead he just moved forward and for the second time took Harry off guard as he crushed their lips together. 

They could figure out the rest later.


End file.
